


The White Wolf's Accompaniment

by BardierZRivii, Shea67



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Anal Sex, Bisexual Male Character, Blow Jobs, Creampie, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Mild spoilers up to s01e03 - Betrayer Moon, Not by any main characters, Porn With Plot, Prostitution, Vers!Geralt, Vers!Jaskier, those are two very awkward tags i am so sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-14
Updated: 2020-02-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 15:40:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22249573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardierZRivii/pseuds/BardierZRivii, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shea67/pseuds/Shea67
Summary: When Geralt, weary from his travels, steps into a brothel looking for physical comfort, the last thing he expects to walk out with is a friend.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 82
Kudos: 1138
Collections: The Witcher Alternate Universes





	1. Pulse and Syncopation

**Author's Note:**

> An alternate summary for this fic can be "Geralt contracts the most musically gifted STD ever"
> 
> First chapter not beta-read; thank you all for your patience (BUT THE SECOND CHAPTER IS!!! BY THE LOVELY Shea67 !!!!!!!!)
> 
> Please follow me on twitter https://twitter.com/bardierZrivii

If the myth about Witchers lacking emotions and feelings was to be believed, then Geralt could hardly be counted as one.

After periods of travelling alone for far too long, Geralt has found that he experiences  _ many  _ emotions: emptiness, fatigue, anger, wistfulness - and most of all, lust. It’s not that the Witcher gets  _ lonely,  _ per se, it’s that he can only go so long with only his right hand for company before he goes out of his mind.

Thankfully, lust is an emotion easily quelled with enough coin. 

The closest city from the village he’d taken a job in is Stael, a nice, discreet city to house Geralt’s  _ discreet  _ activities. Like most other cities, Stael houses a wonderful brothel - one could go so far as to call it high-class. It’s difficult to even tell that it’s a whorehouse upon first arrival, the first floor taken up by a lively bar - but Geralt’s senses don’t lie. He could smell the scent of sex through any miasma of beer and bile.

He slams a satchel of coins on the counter, pointedly staring at a startled barmaid until she hurries over. “Hello, good sir! We don’t see many of your kind around these parts, but coin is coin-”

“How much for three nights?”

If she’s annoyed by his interruption, she doesn’t show it, cheery smile enduring on her features. “It depends on the… how do you say it,  _ flavor  _ of your preference. We pride ourselves on our openmindedness,” she beams, making Geralt want to up and leave so he can cut all this conversation short. He’d just wanted to pay and get to fucking, not make nice with some random girl he had no intention of interacting with further.

But thinking over her words, Geralt realizes how rare it is to come across an opportunity to bed another man, and how long it’s been since he’s had the chance. So he stays, ignoring the maid’s widening grin as he undoes the pursestrings. “How much for three nights with a man, then?”

She takes his money and leads him past the pub and up the stairs, making one-sided conversation with him so as to try and drown out the moaning filtering through the doors. It’s certainly not loud enough to achieve her intended effect, especially with Geralt’s enhanced sense of hearing - but he hardly cares, having come to this brothel for a singular purpose.

Before opening the door to the room he’d paid for, the barmaid stops and looks up at Geralt. “I’m not one to believe the stories about Witchers, but I do hope you treat him right. We have a policy here, and even we’d be forced to deny you admission if we find any evidence of wrongdoing.” Her bright expression is even, not a trace of fear in either her voice or her scent, and Geralt brusquely nods. He hadn’t intended to cause trouble anyways, always loathe to get involved in any matters involving diplomacy.

Satisfied, the barmaid unlocks the door. “Have a wonderful stay,” she beams, remaining only long enough to let Geralt into the room and courteously locking the door behind him.

“Lilia? Is that you? I’d meant to tell you the bath salts need refilling, but - oh!” A young man no older than twenty-five appeared from an adjacent room, completely naked save for a towel hanging low on his hips.

He was small, with dusky strands of hair peppering his chest and less musculature than Geralt would have preferred, but nonetheless beautiful. Yes, he’d certainly do, Geralt decides, already in the process of unraveling the straps attaching his leather armor to his shoulders.

“I wish she’d give me more time to prepare before she brings a customer up,” Geralt hears the whore mutter under his breath, though he might have well imagined it for the way his expression lights up when he begins to address Geralt. “Well, hello there,” he  _ purrs,  _ approaching with the grace of a wild feline. “It’s been a long while since I’d had the pleasure of servicing someone as handsome as you, good sir. And a Witcher, at that! What, is today my birthday?”

“You talk an awful lot for a whore,” is all Geralt rumbles, tossing his overclothes to the floor.

He clicks his tongue, getting close enough to bat Geralt’s hands away and take over the business of getting him naked. “Most customers appreciate the conversation.”

Geralt grunts, putting his hands on the boy’s hips despite his distaste for his chatty behavior. “Name.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m asking for your name,” Geralt growls, already sick of having to waste time talking when he’d usually have his partner writhing on the mattress by now. 

Pushing Geralt’s shirt off his shoulders, he smirks, looking straight into the Witcher’s eyes. “Call me ‘Dandelion’, brooding stranger.”

Geralt has no intention of doing so. He just wanted the whore’s name so he knew who not to request the next time he found himself back in this town. “Geralt,” he grunts, watching Dandelion sink down to his knees as he peels the last of his clothes off his body. Dandelion’s towel has fallen to the ground as well, and they’re both naked, finally - it had only taken them two millennia to get to this point.

“Well Geralt, it is very,  _ very  _ nice to meet you,” Dandelion winks, eyes flitting from Geralt’s face to his half-hard cock before slowly enveloping it between soft, spit-slick lips.

It’s impossible to hold back the moan Geralt lets out at the sensation, every one of his nerves singing as Dandelion’s tongue alternates between dipping into the slit of his cockhead and sliding against the ridge of his crown.

Maybe Geralt would reconsider blacklisting this particular whore.

Moaning, he runs his fingers through short, bronze strands of hair before grabbing a fistful of it, holding Dandelion in place as he slowly sinks more of his length down his throat. His grip is light enough that he could easily come back up for air, but the whore looks almost  _ pleased,  _ darkened gaze fixed on Geralt’s distant expression of pleasure.

He takes it so well, not a gag to be heard even when Geralt has himself buried down to the hilt. The fluttering of Dandelion’s throat around his cock is downright sinful, enough to make Geralt weak in the knees as he feels himself throb while surrounded by Dandelion’s wet heat.

Slowly, so torturously slowly, Dandelion pulls himself off of Geralt’s cock and parts with a kiss to his dripping tip. Licking the precome off his bottom lip, he asks, “Would Geralt the Witcher be so inclined to let me take the lead for a moment?” He rises to his feet and guides Geralt to the bed. 

Geralt lets himself fall onto the mattress when he feels the backs of his knees make contact with the edge of the frame, pulling Dandelion on top of him while raising a questioning eyebrow.

“I promise you’ll like this,” Dandelion grins, pushing Geralt’s wrists against the sheets and giving him a look as if ordering him to keep them still. When he’s confident that Geralt will comply, Dandelion slides down Geralt’s body and drags the tips of his fingers from the root of his cock up to the head. He takes a moment to watch a pearl of precome collect at his slit before swiping it onto his tongue, sinking back down on Geralt’s cock without warning and making the Witcher cry out in earnest.

Dandelion has his palms planted on the jut of Geralt’s hips on either side of his cock, taking all of Geralt’s length. Before Geralt has time to acclimate, Dandelion is pulling back up, stopping right at the tip before tilting his head and sinking back down for another go. Geralt is completely at his mercy, hands fisting uselessly in the sheets as he ascends closer and closer to climax, finally falling over the edge when Dandelion moans around him, sending shockwaves throughout his entire body.

Chest heaving, Geralt comes down from his orgasm with his limbs spread across the bed, too sated to care when Dandelion sees fit to use his bicep as a pillow.

“You’ve got a wonderful cock” is a statement very far down the list of things Geralt wants to hear at a brothel, but thankfully Dandelion doesn’t have any intention of letting the words linger. “Though it seems to be out of commission for the moment. We could wait around, or...”

“I didn’t request three nights with a man to be the only one ‘giving’,” Geralt growls, and he can’t help the warm feeling of smugness spreading through his chest at Dandelion’s following expression of elated shock.

“Right, of course,” Dandelion grins, sitting up so he can push Geralt against the headboard and spread his thighs apart. “Though I hope you wouldn’t be opposed to ‘giving’ just as good as you get.”

Reaching down to stroke Dandelion’s unattended cock with one hand and prepare his own ass with the other, Geralt gives him a challenging look, rather amused by the audible swallow of anticipation he gets in return. “I promise to fuck you into the mattress when you’ve spent yourself inside me,” Geralt hums, feeling his cock twitch in interest as his fingers brush against his prostate.

“I - yes, well I - I certainly hope so,” Dandelion stutters, his composure shattered by Geralt’s dirty talk and the calloused hand working his shaft.

Geralt’s promise does not go unfulfilled, as the Witcher flips Dandelion onto his back after he’s come once inside him and folds him in half, fucking into the smaller man with reckless abandon. By the end of it, Dandelion is gasping and shuddering in release, Geralt spilling a second load deep inside him and bearing down on the soft flesh of his neck with sharp teeth.

It takes the better half of an hour for Dandelion to regain his speech, breathlessly sprawled half across Geralt’s body with his head on the Witcher’s broad shoulder. “Three nights, you said?” 

“Hmm.”

“What are we doing, wasting precious time?” he laughs, hauling himself up and over Geralt’s body so he can straddle him. 

Geralt’s expression must betray his surprise, because Jaskier pats his cheek reassuringly. “Don’t worry, Geralt. I won’t break. I may not be a Witcher, but I certainly have the stamina to handle whatever you’d like to do to me.”

That’s all the permission Geralt needs before taking Dandelion once more on the bed, twice against the wall, and once more in the tub until dawn breaks and sunlight streams through the grime of the one window lighting the room.

Curiously, Dandelion had taken it upon himself to sit behind Geralt and massage lavender oil into his hair, brushing it with all the care in the world. It’s nice, Geralt supposes, and he finds himself relaxing into the touch.

“I’ve something to confess to you, Witcher.” Dandelion’s ministrations feel so good that Geralt can’t find it in himself to summon the usual irritation at the prospect of another conversation. He says nothing, waiting for Dandelion to get on with it. “Dandelion is just a fake name I give to customers I find… problematic. I’d quite like if you could call me Jaskier from now on.”

Geralt is unsurprised, considering Jaskier’s precautions as a necessity to make sure he never has to see a customer he doesn’t like more than once. He isn’t so deluded as to feel honored by the fact that he’s become privy to this information, however.

“I’ll make sure to wear it out in the next few days to come,” Geralt murmurs, snaking a hand behind him to wrap his fingers around the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “Are you finished back there, or am I going to have to distract you?”

The distraction is unnecessary, Jaskier pulling Geralt up and out of the tub for an eighth, tenth, twelfth round before he’s finally exhausted enough to end up asleep with his face buried into the crook of Geralt’s neck.

The position is a bit too intimate for Geralt’s liking, but even he doesn’t have the energy to push Jaskier away - and he sleeps well for the first time in a long time, falling under to the rhythm of Jaskier’s quiet snoring.

On the dawn of the third day, Geralt is woken up by soft humming from the direction of the washroom, enticing enough to persuade him to throw off his sheets so he can deduce the source of the alluring sound.

Even with the sight of Jaskier humming as proof, Geralt finds it hard to believe that the whore he’s hired for the past three nights has such a beautiful voice. Closing his eyes, he leans against the doorframe to just listen until Jaskier notices his presence, voice dying out in embarrassment.

“Don’t stop on my account.” 

“I’m sorry if I woke you,” Jaskier mumbles sheepishly, blush rising to the tips of his ears as he looks away. “I thought you’d be worn out enough to sleep a few more hours.”

“If you can sing like that, why exactly are you here? Do you prefer sex with strangers to performing?”

“Look who’s suddenly Mister Talkative,” Jaskier scoffs, rinsing the suds out of his hair and relaxing against the edge of the tub nearest to Geralt. “I have a debt to the Countess de Stael. Travelling as a bard would hardly garner enough to pay it off.”

“Court performers are paid handsomely.”

“I’d rather stay out of the company of royals as much as I can, thank you very much.” Geralt can sympathise, though he can’t imagine having to choose between whoring himself out for pleasure or to court royals.

Silence stretches between them as Geralt watches Jaskier climb carefully out of the tub, admiring the bitemarks adorning Jaskier’s neck and the scratches littering his back. He’d always appreciated the time it took for humans to heal - those marks would be on Jaskier for days, reminding him of Geralt’s visit for weeks after he’s gone.

He thinks he’d like to make Jaskier sing one last time, though their time is all but up - so Geralt settles for asking Jaskier where he’d learned the tune from, and if he can sing it again.

“That song? Oh, I made it up,” Jaskier responds bashfully as he tucks his shirt into his trousers. “I haven’t the words to go along with the melody, though. It’s not as if I have time to venture outside the city walls.”

“You can’t sing about your customers?”

“I think we have very different ideas about what this job entails, my friend. None of my customers are as ballad-worthy as you’ve been.” With a blush still spread across his cheeks, Jaskier smirks up at Geralt, gaze slowly drifting downwards from where it starts at his face.

They’re interrupted by a banging on the door, a familiar but much angrier voice than expected booming from the hall. “Your three nights are up, Witcher! Get out or I’ll throw you out myself!”

Giving Geralt a look, Jaskier hands him his pants. “You’d better listen to Lilia. She’s not all bark,” he says solemnly, patting Geralt on the chest. “I hope I’ve given you a reason to make a second visit.”

After a moment’s pause filled with angry knocking, Geralt replies, “You’ll know if I ever return to this city.”

“I would hope for nothing more. Now go, before Lilia decides to castrate us both.”

Geralt nods, not willing to stick around long enough to incur the wrath of an angry barmaid despite his knowledge that his strength far outmatches hers. Opening the door, he expects the wrath of a hundred harpies to come down on him - but he’s greeted with a pleasant smile instead, leaving with the impression that he may have just dreamed the whole outburst up.

He doesn’t plan to find himself back in Stael after he takes off, but after a job in Blaviken goes tits up and the ordeal of reversing the curse of the Striga in Temeria takes its toll, Geralt finds himself in dire need of rest and relaxation. Not because of any physical exhaustion, but for the emotional toil of having to deal with the bullshit and petty squabbles of so many idiotic mortals.

A few months have passed since his dalliance with the whore with aspirations of becoming a travelling bard when Geralt takes Roach back to Stael. His reception into the brothel is a touch less welcoming after his reputation took a nosedive from the disaster in Blaviken, but at least he isn’t turned away.

“Fancy risking your head walking back into this brothel, do you, Witcher?” Lilia greets him at the bar, that impossible-to-forget simpering smile stretched across her face. The worry lines around her eyes don’t escape Geralt’s notice this time around.

“I’ll leave if I’m not wanted, but you told me last time that coin is coin, no matter who it’s from.” Geralt lets a few coins bounce against the counter, giving the barmaid a pointed look.

She counts the amount proffered and looks down at him, raising an eyebrow. “So I did. But your memory must be failing you, because you’ve come up short.”

“It isn’t and I haven’t, but take the extra coin and give Jaskier a little spending money.”

Her eyes go wide at the mention of his actual name, and she nods, pocketing the coins in her hand before hurriedly ushering Geralt back upstairs to the room he’d met Jaskier for the first time.

“You have a visitor!” She calls out, looking shiftily Geralt’s way until Jaskier finally answers the door. To Geralt’s disappointment, he’s clothed this time, eyes widening when he realizes who Lilia’s brought him.

He looks more nervous than their first encounter, which is to be expected. If Lilia has heard of the incident in Blaviken, then Jaskier surely has, too. “Geralt,” he says slowly, opening the door wide to invite him in. “You’re back.”

“Have I rendered you speechless, Jaskier?”

“Keep your business behind closed doors,” Lilia scoffs, pushing Geralt into the room with her ever-enduring smiling demeanor. “One night only, Witcher. See that you don’t overstay your welcome.”

With that, she closes the door, the sound of her heels clicking against the hardwood fast receding.

“She took more than three days worth of coin before she told me that,” Geralt grumbled, taking off his cloak and setting it on a nearby chair. 

From the bed, Jaskier lets out a huff of laughter, shirt already on the floor and trousers undone. “We can more than make up for it, can’t we?”

They absolutely could, Jaskier during one memorable round leaving Geralt wondering where the hell he’d gotten the balls to fuck a Witcher face-first against the wall while restraining one of his hands at the small of his back. 

“So. The ‘Butcher of Blaviken’, eh?” Jaskier drawls after they’d taken a bath, relaxing against the expanse of Geralt’s chest.

Geralt groans - he should have seen this coming from a mile away, but lust had the capacity to blind even him. “If I paid you with what little coin I have left, would you stop asking?”

Jaskier takes a seat, letting his bare legs hang over one of its arms. “Of course not, but I wouldn’t say no to taking it off your hands. What happened, Geralt? I don’t profess to know you well, but you hardly seem like the murdering type.”

“You’re mistaken. All Witchers are the murdering type.”

“Only for the poor bastards who deserve the fate you give them. Ten mercenaries against one Witcher? They should have brought an army.”

Well, that’s surprising. “I thought word had gotten out that I’d killed innocent villagers.”

“Did you, Geralt?”

He looks the Witcher in the eyes, capturing his gaze - and Geralt finds that he’s unable to look away, brows furrowing at the question. 

“...No.”

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Jaskier jumps up from his seat, clapping his hands together. “See, if I were allowed the luxury of leaving this damned whorehouse for even a day, I could change peoples’ misconceptions about you.”

“I thought you were having trouble putting pen to paper.”

“Not so after hearing of your escapades down in the pub.” Jaskier pulls out a notebook from his desk, flattening it out so he can sing a few lines for Geralt. The Witcher tries not to betray his surprise - another one of many in Jaskier’s company - because of all the brothels he’s visited, he’s never once run into a literate whore.

Jaskier’s voice is sweeter and smoother than honey, as it had been the first time Geralt heard him sing. Not that Geralt had the emotional capacity to express as much. “The melody’s fine, but the lyrics are… lacking. Listening to that was like ordering a pie and finding out it has no filling.” The line about his ‘heart of gold’ certainly wouldn’t be received with anything more than merciless jeering.

“Excuse you?” Jaskier scoffs indignantly, slamming the notebook down and storming over to the bed. “I’ll show you a filling-less pie.”

Geralt’s unsure whether or not Jaskier is seriously angry until he hears him laughing against his ear as he tackles him down onto the mattress, wrestling the Witcher as best he can for a man of his diminutive stature - which is not very well. He lets Jaskier do as he pleases for a few moments before flipping them over, trapping him underneath his larger frame. 

They share a breathless few moments, faces inches away from each others’ before Jaskier, predictably, decides to break the silence. “Planning on filling me with ‘cream’, are you, O Butcher of Blaviken?”

Despite the use of the abhorrent title, Geralt can’t keep a straight face at that, pushing Jaskier into the mattress as he pulls away. “The sun is about to rise. You’ll have your cream at a later date.”

“Another promise? I hope it won’t be another few months before I see your sorry face ‘round here again.”

“Nilfgaard is a few weeks’ travel from here.”

“Then at least have the decency not to get yourself killed from now ‘til we see each other next.”

Geralt snorts, picking his clothes up off the floor so he can leave before Lilia decides to give an encore of the performance she’d given them at the end of his first visit. “That’s a promise I’m not capable of making.”

Lilia is waiting outside the door as soon as Geralt opens it to leave, giving him a wooden smile as she escorts him off the premises. 

It’s only when he’s halfway to Nilfgaard that he realizes that he hadn’t smelled the stench of fear on Jaskier once the entire time he’d been at the brothel. He’s not sure what that means other than the fact that the idiot has started to grow on him, a feat rarely achieved by the thousands of people Geralt has encountered in the one hundred years he’s walked the Earth.

On his way back from Nilfgaard, Geralt is accosted by a band of troubadours who look more like mangy, starving dogs than they do genuine bandits. He routs them easily with nothing but one of his swords sheathed in its scabbard, earning their surrender before he has the chance to knock them all out.

When they beg for him to spare their lives, Geralt acts as if he would really bring his sword down on the heads of hungry men so he can make a bargain: their lives for one pristine lute.

Once he has it, he straps it to Roach’s side and changes course from Redania to the brothel - he might as well call it home for the number of times he’s returned to it.

The third time Geralt steps foot into Lilia’s brothel, the barmaid greets him at the door, hurrying him up the stairs without a mention of payment this time around. “You choose the one day that knights from Temeria are here to visit. Your reputation is starting to precede you, Witcher. Use the back door next time.” Fair enough, as Geralt would never say no to a more discreet method of entering. 

His hopes of Lilia forgetting his payment are dashed when she holds her hand out expectantly, and he begrudgingly sets a stack of coins on her palm, the same amount as the first time he’d visited. 

Accepting the payment this time, she lets him be the one to knock, gone before his knuckles make contact with the wood. He hears a muffled  _ ‘Coming!’  _ before the door swings open, giving Geralt a good look at Jaskier’s once pristine face adorned with a purple bruise surrounding his eye.

“What,” he grunts, letting Jaskier pull him through the doorway to lock them both inside. 

“I told Lilia to leave me be, that bitch,” Jaskier hisses, hand covering his eyes both in frustration and as a way to hide his injury from Geralt. “It’s nothing! Really! It’s not like I’ll ever see the bastard that did this to me again, anyways.”

“Is that the only bruise, Jaskier.” Geralt doesn’t phrase it as a question, expressing the statement as an order for Jaskier to tell the truth - but of course the fool refuses to comply. He turns away, smelling sharply of cinnamon-spiced anger.

“What do you care? Aren’t I just a whore to you, Witcher?”

As much as Geralt wanted to, he couldn’t force Jaskier to answer him truthfully - so he attempts to disarm Jaskier with something a bit more civilized. Swinging the lute off his shoulder and setting it on the bed, he points at it, returning Jaskier’s expression of disbelief with an unimpressed look.

“What is that.”

“A lute.”

“Have you decided to quit your job and take up the performing arts? Are you here to ask for lessons?”

“It’s for  _ you,  _ Jaskier!” His patience is cut short, voice raising a few decibels so Jaskier will finally get the point. “I took it off the hands of bandits. Now take off your clothes.”

“I wish these were sexier circumstances,” Jaskier grumbles, but finally gives in, letting his shirt pool at his waist.

Geralt feels his features gather into a scowl when he sees the work done, bruises of varying colors patterning from Jaskier’s neck to his ribs. Bruises circle his wrists as well, angry red gashes burning starkly through the transparent material of Jaskier’s shirt. 

“Some customers have rather sadistic tastes. I wouldn’t have minded it so much had he not gone for the fucking face-”

“We’re not having sex today, Jaskier.”

Geralt ignores the protests as he presses the lute into Jaskier’s hands. “I’m not some withering maiden,  _ Geralt _ . I’m in good enough condition to fight, let alone fuck.”

“I’ll tell you about the time I fought the striga in Temeria.” Thankfully, that shuts Jaskier right up, and his fingers run across the strings of the lute - he’s practiced, which only brings up a hundred more questions Geralt wants to ask the man.

Jaskier, as it turns out, is just as good of a listener as Geralt expects - a shit one, interrupting every few seconds and making Geralt lose his train of thought before he can finish the one before it - but his bright expression and frantic scribbling make it all worth it. 

“So the  _ king _ was cursed, but the princess was the one to suffer the consequences? And he - wow, I feel completely justified in staying holed up here instead of rubbing shoulders with royalty.”

To be honest, Geralt was glad of this too, though he couldn’t find the words to describe exactly why.

Jaskier is curled up against the headboard, resting his notebook on his bunched-up thighs as a makeshift table and looking years younger than he is. Thoroughly focused on his task, he hums stray notes with his eyebrows scrunched together in deep thought - and Geralt finds himself unable to look away.

He doesn’t realize he’s been caught until Jaskier decides to speak up. “Wondering how a common whore ever got around to being literate?” he hums, eyes still glued to the parchment.

“It wasn’t a thought that ever crossed my mind.” And that wasn’t the truth, but Jaskier was determined to be the most annoying anomaly Geralt has ever encountered - he found that it was easier not to ask questions than it was to open other directionless doors. But now that Jaskier had brought it up, he waits quietly for him to finish his explanation. 

Jaskier finally looks up and sets his quill down, candlelight casting shadows on his inscrutable expression. “Lying doesn’t suit you. You would’ve done just as well grunting like a beast.”

That’s what Geralt gets for talking, he supposes. Jaskier continues, a distant look in his eyes even as they stay fixed on Geralt’s face. “I’d rather not put the energy into telling you all about myself when I don’t even know when - or  _ if  _ \- you’ll ever be back. You make me feel like a princess trapped in a tower, Geralt.”

Geralt has never apologized before, but he feels the urge to do so now - and he looks away, unable to withstand Jaskier’s oppressive gaze. 

When Jaskier speaks again, his voice is softer, as if he feels remorseful for souring the mood. “Thank you, though. For the lute. And for the story, most of all.”

“I don’t consider ourselves strangers.”

“What was that?”

What indeed. Geralt hadn’t intended to say that aloud, and he grimaces. Forcing himself to look at Jaskier again proves more difficult than wresting gold from a harpy. “I wouldn’t have come back if I didn’t intend to keep your company.”

“It’s not like we’re friends,” Jaskier retorts, voice shaking. “And it’s not as if you’d take me along on one of your journeys. Don’t delude me - or yourself - into thinking you intend on being anything more than one of my customers.”

Geralt lets silence fall, gears turning in his head. Before Jaskier has the chance to call him out and affirm his assumptions, he says, “I have two more nights with you, and a job to do in Erlenwald - half a day’s ride away.”

Jaskier is so quiet that Geralt almost believes that he’s been turned mute by a sorcerer’s stray spell. His voice cracks when he finally does decide to speak.

“I’m not allowed to leave the outskirts of town. The Countess, she has eyes everywhere.”

“Then I’ll find a job to do here.” Geralt is bound to find some poor villager in need of his services somewhere in the ground floor pub. 

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t treat me like a charity case, Geralt…”

Jaskier hangs off the edge of his sentence, and Geralt waits impatiently for the ‘but’ he knows is coming.

“...but I can hardly refuse the offer of adventure. Talk to Lilia. If anyone needs a job done, they’ll have spoken to her.”

Pleased that he’d gotten his way, Geralt rises from the bed, only to have Jaskier catch his hand and look up at him with the weight of a thousand gratitudes conveyed in an apologetic smile. Geralt doesn’t know what else to do but nod, squeezing Jaskier’s hand before regrettably letting go so he can find the barmaid and get Jaskier out of his tower. Even if only for a day.

Downstairs, Lilia acts as if she’s seen a ghost when Geralt descends from the last step, rushing over to stop him before he can cross the threshold into the noisy bar. “What are you doing down here,” she hisses, genuine curiosity and anger mixing in her tone.

“Lilia. Is there anyone in need of a Witcher’s services here tonight?”

Hesitating, she answers, “Yes, but… none of these drunken louts could afford what are no doubt your steep prices-”

“I’ll do it for free as long as I can take Jaskier with me.”

He doesn’t expect the barmaid to explode into peals of laughter. “You’d sooner steal a gold dragon’s hoard than get that boy out of this city.” Her mirth is accompanied by a smile with a harsh edge, more mocking than Geralt had thought the woman capable of.

“I don’t intend to try.”

“Then what? You ‘promise’ to bring him back here?”

“I’ve been told the Countess keeps a close eye on him.”

After a moment’s silence, Lilia seems to acquiesce, hands fidgeting with the strings of her apron. “A shipwreck has allowed a lamia to infest the waters of the lake on the edge of town. Keep him safe and out of harm’s way, because it’ll be you shouldering his debt if he can’t return to work.”

Geralt is too jaded to believe that Lilia cares for Jaskier, but at least he has someone looking out for him, someone other than Geralt, who constantly tows the line between life and death. He nods in thanks, climbing the stairs back up to Jaskier - and quite literally runs into him when he rounds the corner. He’d been eavesdropping, the little shit.

“So. A lamia, eh?”

“Get packing. And  _ don’t  _ bring the lute.”

Jaskier clings to the offending instrument, trying his hardest to sway Geralt with an overdramatic pout. 

_ “Jaskier.” _

“Geralt,” he sing-songs back, looking up at the Witcher through long eyelashes.

Could Geralt have tried harder to get his way? Absolutely, but he suspects Jaskier would have found some way to sneak the lute along for the ride no matter what Geralt had to say. He gives up, pushing past him to gather his belongings.

Geralt isn’t sure when he’d allowed himself to get so soft, but he finds it hard to regret his decision to let Jaskier come along when he strums a tune Geralt struggles not to sing along to, melody backed by the constant beat of Roach’s hooves striking the earth.


	2. Into Cadenza

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt fights the lamia, but he soon learns that learning of Jaskier's past is a far more daunting ordeal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This couldn't have been perfected without my beta Kailey (@Shea67);;;;;;;;;; thenk u for my lyfe
> 
> If you hadn't noticed, I'm adding another chapter after this one! Thanks for sticking around.
> 
> As always, follow me on twitter: https://twitter.com/bardierZrivii

“Have you ever fought a lamia before? What do they look like? How deadly are they? Ooh, do they have fangs? Three heads, maybe some wicked talons-”

“Jaskier. Shut up.”

Not a moment of silence had graced them from the brothel to the city gates. When he’d run out of songs to sing, Jaskier resorted to talking Geralt’s ear off even more than when he’d just been a customer of his, despite Geralt’s very obvious disinterest in making conversation.

Jaskier is nonplussed by the command, craning his neck to look up at Geralt perched in Roach’s saddle. “I’d probably talk less if you’d respond every once in a while. Trying to start a conversation with you is about as productive as ramming my head into a brick wall.”

“Yet you continue to ram your head right into that wall.” Geralt lets out a low sigh and gives Roach’s reins a mild snap, the mare picking up speed in response. He regrets bringing Jaskier along, he really does.

“Geralt?” Jaskier shouts after him, stumbling as he tries to quicken his pace. Although, he has no reason to worry about getting left behind. Only a few yards away in a clearing nestled along the forest’s edge, Geralt dismounts from Roach to search for a good spot to set up camp.

Jaskier soon catches up with his runaway companion, taking a few long strides past Geralt before he spins around to point at him accusatorily. “You’re the one who should have the title of ‘whore,’ Geralt. That was a very-- _whorish_ thing to do.”

Geralt can’t help the smile that creeps onto his face, but he’s able to downplay it into a smirk. “Quiet, Jaskier. You don’t want the lamia to find you by your whining, do you?”

Mid-retort, he snaps his mouth shut, brows indignantly furrowed together - an expression that reminds Geralt of a tiny songbird gathering air into its cheeks. 

The quiet that follows is a blessing, with Jaskier too afraid of unknown danger to make a sound. It frees Geralt’s attention enough so that he’s able to choose a spot of grass and tie Roach to a nearby tree. But even when Jaskier isn’t talking, his presence is overbearing. It’s clear that he wants to ask a thousand questions while Geralt establishes their camp and gathers wood for a fire. Gaze unamused, Geralt lightly prods Jaskier with a loose branch to spur him into helping. If he’s gone through the trouble of bringing a human along, said human might as well make himself useful.

Jaskier eagerly complies and returns with an armful of small branches for kindling, only to bring back wood tinged green - every single twig useless for a fire. With a mildly frustrated grunt, Geralt takes the wood from Jaskier’s hands and simply gestures to a log he hauled over to use as a seat, wordlessly imploring Jaskier with a frown and a dismissive wave to sit still so Geralt can actually get things done.

With Jaskier out of the way, Geralt gathers usable wood and sets a fire before he leaves to hunt down their dinner. Upon returning, Geralt ignores Jaskier’s yelp of surprise when he heaves a young stag off his shoulder and onto the ground with a loud _thud_.

“We’re - we’re eating _that?”_ Jaskier hisses, finally bold enough to break his somewhat self-imposed silence.

Geralt glances at Jaskier and cocks a brow before he turns back to skin the deer’s hide from its ribs. “You’re welcome to starve.” He says, mostly joking. He wonders why Jaskier has never seen a carcass prepared for a meal before - he couldn’t have lived his whole life in that brothel, could he?

Despite his protests, Jaskier devours the meat Geralt roasts for him enthusiastically enough. “So,” he mumbles through a mouth full of venison, “when are we going to go get that lamia?”

 _“We?”_ Geralt pointedly stares at Jaskier over his mammoth steak, holding the cut of meat still inches from his mouth. “ _You’re_ staying _here_ while _I_ kill it.”

“What?! What was the point of bringing me out here, then?”

“Would you rather we stayed at the brothel?”

“Well, sure. I’d take it over twiddling my thumbs here if it meant having more sex with you,” he states matter-of-factly, only shrugging his shoulders in response when he sees the incredulous look Geralt is giving him.

Geralt playfully rolls his eyes, rising to his feet and brushing off the front of his trousers once he’s finished with his meal. Pointing an end of the bone he picked clean at Jaskier, he growls, “I’ll be back. _Don’t. Move.”_

Leaning closer with a wide grin across his face, Jaskier mockingly retorts, _“I. Won’t.”_

Even as he turns away to gather his swords and his satchel, he keeps his eyes on Jaskier. “If you do, Roach will let me know.”

“What, your horse is a _snitch?”_

Geralt doesn’t deign that with an answer, giving Jaskier one last glare before he disappears into the brush.

* * *

Jaskier can only handle so much waiting around before he feels the incessant need to move. After all, it had been almost _thirty_ minutes since Geralt left - it would be poor form not to go and see if he was doing alright, wouldn’t it? He looks up at Roach, leaning towards the horse with a hand planted on his thigh.

“You wouldn’t tell on me, would you? You look like a good horse - I’ll bribe Lilia into giving you some sugar cubes when we return. How about that, eh?”

The moment Jaskier stands up from the log to pet Roach, the horse whinnies softly, shaking its head. He must be imagining things because - because the mare looks _disappointed_ in him. 

He slowly begins to sit back down - but as soon as the horse lowers its head to graze, Jaskier takes off in the general direction of Geralt’s departure, ignoring the sting of tiny branches whipping against his shins and Roach’s alarmed braying behind him.

It occurs to him that since Roach is tied to a tree, he didn’t actually have to run - but what matters is that he’s already reached water. However, Geralt is nowhere to be found.

The water and air are completely still. The absence of the melodic warbling of birds that made their camp seem so homey made the quiet even eerier. Jaskier has never experienced such silence, and it scares him to the point that he can hardly utter a word.

He hasn’t run out of nerve yet though, slowly approaching the lake. “Geralt…?” He calls out, gaze scanning the mirror-like surface.

A sharp rustling of leaves startles him into swiveling around just as the heel of one of his boots touches the water. Jaskier hears the surface of the water break behind him, and before he has the chance to turn back around and see what it is, something wraps around his ankle and tugs hard enough to make him lose his footing.

His shoulder hits the ground hard, the weight of his entire body crashing to the ground with a dull thud. Scrabbling for purchase against loose sand, Jaskier screams the only word he knows has any chance of bringing help.

_“GERALT!”_

* * *

Geralt had first encountered the lamia near the junction between the lake and the river that fed into it. However, halfway through their battle, when Geralt had gotten the upper hand and sliced one of the beast’s arms off, it had been smart enough to quickly retreat. The thing was far faster in water than Geralt could ever hope to be on land, but the river betrayed the path of its escape.

And then came Jaskier’s scream. Fear, an emotion he hardly ever experienced, ran down his spine - but even running as fast as he could, he was too late to stop the lamia from dragging his companion into the water. Too far away to help, he heard rather than saw it all happen, recognizing the frantic call of his name, subsequent splash, and panicked thrashing in the distance.

_“Fuck!”_

Hadn’t he told the idiot to stay put? Geralt should have known better than to expect Jaskier to listen, but he had become too preoccupied with the lamia to babysit him. The creature was far older and more powerful than he’d expected for a beast that let itself get captured by humans.

Wading into the water with his adrenaline pumping, Geralt unsheathed his silver sword. He had to bide his time and wait for signs of the lamia to appear on the surface of the water - and as soon he saw so much as a ripple, he reeled back to swing…

...only to stop his blade mere inches from Jaskier’s throat. 

The fucking thing was using Jaskier as a shield. Though it couldn’t do much with just one arm and its tail occupied around Jaskier’s body, the lamia undoubtedly had the upper hand with a hostage. There was nothing Geralt could do without eviscerating Jaskier in the process, and he found that even when considering his companion’s failure to follow orders, that was the last thing he wanted to have happen.

The lamia’s torso rose from the water behind Jaskier’s unconscious body, regarding Geralt cautiously. Even though it meant letting his guard down, Geralt spared a quick glance at Jaskier. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to have any injuries, though he’d probably end up badly bruised.

With little choice left for its survival, the lamia began to sing, sounding like the bastard child born from the communion of a snake and a siren. To a human, the song would have sounded like heaven, ethereal like no other sound uttered on Earth - but to Geralt, it was a shrill, piercing thing, making him fight the urge to wince in pain.

He knew the game. He’d have to pretend as if he were captured under the lamia’s thrall, eyes unblinking as he drops his sword and wades slowly closer. If the lamia letting Jaskier go is any indication, his ruse is working - perhaps the lamia isn’t so intelligent after all.

As Jaskier’s limp body floats back towards the shore, Geralt feels the lamia’s tail snake around his legs - but as soon as he’s within range, he draws the other sword strapped to his back and decapitates the beast in one fell swoop.

Despite the sword being made of steel, decapitation would kill almost any creature. Geralt follows the trailing cloud of deep crimson to grab the lamia’s head by its hair, throwing the thing onto the shore so he has both hands free to scoop Jaskier’s body into his arms.

His silver sword lays forgotten at the bottom of the lake as he makes sure that Jaskier is alive. If he’d been drowned, water no doubt filled his lungs. Geralt couldn’t hear anything when he put his ear to Jaskier’s lips. With little choice left, he leans down, about to breathe life back into him when suddenly Jaskier begins coughing violently, water spewing from his mouth into Geralt’s face.

Geralt bolts upright, jolted by the water like a stray cat splashed by a passing carriage. He feels mild discomfort about his sodden skin for only a moment until he’s overcome by a wave of relief.

_Jaskier is okay._

“What the-” Jaskier thrashes from side to side as coughing wracks his body. “What - what happened? What’d I miss? Why’re you so _wet,_ Geralt?”

“The lamia is dead.” Geralt half-answers. He nods at the head he’d thrown nearby, still crouching over Jaskier with one knee planted in the sand.

Jaskier is fairly nonplussed about seeing a head detached from its body, considering the way he’d reacted when Geralt had brought the deer to their campsite. “Oh, is it?” He slowly sits up, Geralt hovering over him in case he needs assistance. Jaskier takes off his shirt so he can wring it dry, mostly ignoring Geralt’s concern. “You work extraordinarily fast, my friend. I assume not much time had passed since I was pulled into the water?”

Grunting in confirmation, Geralt eyes Jaskier with what is no doubt a puzzled expression. Why the hell was Jaskier so calm about having almost been killed?

Looking up, Jaskier catches his eye and lets his arms fall limply against his thighs, clothes soaked by the lake although he seems entirely unbothered. “Been there, done that, Geralt. Now, I dreamt I had the privilege of listening to the loveliest voice I’d ever heard in my life. That couldn’t have been the lamia, could it?”

It takes a few moments before Geralt can shake off his curiosity and gruffly respond. “I prefer yours.” 

“What?” Jaskier squawks, eyes widened comically in surprise. Geralt doesn’t realize what his words sound like to someone who heard the lamia’s singing, not its banshee-like wailing. While Jaskier splutters behind him, Geralt wades back into the water unconcernedly so he can retrieve his sword.

Once he’s back on land, he grabs the lamia’s head with one hand and Jaskier’s arm with the other, though his grip on the latter was much gentler. He wants nothing more than a hot bath, soft sheets, and Jaskier’s body underneath his.

“Hey! Careful with the goods,” Jaskier mumbles, the intended heat behind his words lost to the redness spreading up his neck, across his cheeks, and settling at the tips of his ears.

Geralt fully intends to chastise Jaskier for putting himself in danger once they’re back at the brothel, but not before he has a chance to see the extent of the damage done to his body. The trip back to town is brisk, and with Jaskier riding in front, his back covered by Geralt’s large expanse of a chest, they’re able to keep a much quicker pace. Thankfully, Jaskier doesn’t comment about how adamant Geralt had been that he not touch Roach just a few hours prior. 

The minute they return to Jaskier’s room, Geralt hauls him over to the washroom and tugs his shirt over his head, an easy feat with the substantial difference in their height and the lack of a fight Jaskier puts up.

As he’d predicted, Jaskier’s body is covered in fresh bruises where the lamia had grabbed him, each bruise wrapping around him in a nearly-continuous deep purple line. Breathing shallowly, he trails his fingers along the discolorations, large hand curving around ribs as his thumb traces small circles into Jaskier’s marred skin. 

“What’s gotten into you?” Jaskier murmurs, letting a hand rest on Geralt’s wrist. Rather than pushing him away, he held on. “I’m alright, really. I promise.”

Golden eyes meet blue. Their foreheads are almost close enough to touch, but neither of them makes a move. Jaskier stares at him, appearing as if he’s daring him to do something, but Geralt doesn’t know what to do. Kissing would be too soft, too intimate.

Despite his better judgement, he pulls back, opting to ignore Jaskier’s mild look of disappointment. “Into the tub, Jaskier.” The words are neither forceful nor overly soft, but there’s a sort of domesticity to them.

Jaskier’s mouth opens, then closes, then opens again - until it seems like he gives up on what he wants to say. He frustratedly sheds the rest of his clothes.

Fully intent on letting Jaskier relax on his own, Geralt starts towards the door. “Wait, now hold on a minute,” Jaskier scoffs behind him, the movement of his body causing water to loudly slosh against the sides of the tub. “There’s no need to be shy, Geralt. Think of how many times we’ve crammed ourselves in here before.”

To be honest, Geralt doesn’t want to find himself in the same position as before, heart exposed and soul vulnerable. But Jaskier, with wet hair framing his longing blue eyes and steam rising off his soft, glowing skin, was far too hard to resist.

The Witcher turns away as he tugs his shirt over his head, frustrated at himself for giving in, yet too turned on to actually care about his pride. 

“That’s what I thought,” Jaskier drawls, leaning over the side of the tub and holding his hand out for Geralt to take. Once Geralt reluctantly places his hand in Jaskier’s palm, he pulls it towards him, fingers sliding up the sensitive skin of Geralt’s wrist and inner forearm. It’s hard not to shiver at the sensation, and even harder when Jaskier presses his lips to Geralt’s scarred and cracked knuckles.

He steps into the tub, legs tangling with Jaskier’s as he lowers himself into the water. Almost immediately, his companion vaults forwards so that they’re chest-to-chest, Jaskier’s arms winding loosely around his neck. He settles comfortably in Geralt’s lap, straddling his thighs without a moment’s hesitation, and leans back slightly, his hands placed just above Geralt’s knees. 

“Thanks for getting me out of that jam, earlier.”

Geralt half-grunts and half-sighs, brows furrowing as he studies the man’s face. “That’s what you’re calling it? You almost _died_.”

“Be careful, Witcher. It almost sounds like you were worried about me.” Sinuously, Jaskier lazily rolls his hips forwards, causing their lengths to slide together. On reflex, Geralt grabs Jaskier by the waist and holds him still, neither pushing him away or pulling him forward. 

They stare at each other for a few breathless moments, eyes wide and expressions too vulnerable for either of their comforts. Before long, Jaskier surges forwards to capture Geralt’s lips in a hungry, wanting kiss, one that Geralt has no qualms about leaning into. This isn’t a kiss filled with any deep emotional longing, it’s voracious and desperate - something Geralt can easily enjoy. It reminds him of the first day he and Jaskier had the pleasure of meeting, feeling… _impersonal,_ in a way.

His hands leave their place on Jaskier’s hips and trail lower until they reach the round swell of his ass, squeezing tightly and grinding up against him. Jaskier, on the other hand, is focused on practically devouring Geralt, blissful moans filtering between the sounds of their tongues sliding together. Every noise he’s able to coax out of the man is purely intoxicating. Jaskier’s reactions are more adept at enthralling him than any succubus’ comparatively weak attempt ever could be. 

Jaskier’s fingers tangle between the long strands of Geralt’s hair. The moment he closes his fist and _pulls,_ Geralt’s cock gives a _very_ interested twitch against Jaskier’s. Geralt can feel Jaskier smile against his lips. In revenge, he bites down on Jaskier’s plush bottom lip, feeling a similar twitch of interest below the surface.

Deciding that Jaskier has spent enough time on top, Geralt wraps an arm around his waist and moves him to the other end of the tub, lingering over him. Unprompted, Jaskier raises a leg up to rest his thigh on Geralt’s shoulder, wordlessly inviting Geralt to start preparing him.

Geralt, still allowing himself to be strung along by Jaskier’s pace, lets a hand slip beneath the surface of the water, stroking the pad of his thumb against his entrance before gradually sinking his fingers inside.

Slowly, he moves his hand, watching Jaskier’s expressions change from mild discomfort to wanton pleasure, deliberately circling his fingers around the spot that pleasures his companion the most.

Cock leaking against his stomach, Jaskier grabs another fistful of Geralt’s hair and pulls harder than before, this time with the purpose of exposing his neck. Lips creating a seal against his damp skin, he sets his teeth in to mark it, tongue laving against the forming hickey.

“Think of all the monsters and beasts that have never been able to leave a mark on the White Wolf,” Jaskier purrs, bearing down onto Geralt’s fingers, “Yet here I am, branding you with my own.”

That’s about as much as Geralt can take. He pulls his fingers out and presses his cock against Jaskier’s entrance with a pent-up growl. “Don’t act as though you have the upper hand when you have yet to explain yourself.”

Giving his own cock slow, languid strokes, Jaskier pushes against Geralt as if begging the Witcher to spear him on his cock. “Explain what, Geralt?” He says with a breathless laugh, though his mirth is cut short when he’s slowly filled with Geralt’s length.

“I _told_ you to stay put.” Geralt denies Jaskier of pleasure by refusing to move, holding his thinner frame still with an iron grip on his waist. Jaskier all but whines, writhing desperately around the cock spearing him. “Why can’t you follow orders?”

Grinning, Jaskier relentlessly squeezes. “I’ve had more experience giving them. Now _move,_ Witcher.”

When Geralt refuses, Jaskier begins to stroke himself with more urgency, shimmying his hips as best he can against Geralt’s grasp. 

Unamused, Geralt grabs Jaskier’s wrists, pulling them away. “Promise me that you’ll behave.”

“Or else _what_?”

In answer, Geralt moves his hips, relishing in the quiet, endearing hitches of Jaskier’s breath. The Witcher continues in earnest, building up to a vigorous, unrelenting pace - only to stop when Jaskier is on the edge of release.

 _“Promise.”_ Geralt implores. His gaze is purely carnal, pupils blown wide as he revels in Jaskier’s nearly euphoric expression.

Jaskier shudders as his eyes roll into the back of his head, mouth hanging open on a silent cry of pleasure. “You’re such a bastard,” he groans in response, nearly panting. Geralt can feel every frustrated, protesting squeeze Jaskier’s body makes around his cock.

Geralt begins that pace again, his own groans of pleasure mixing with Jaskier’s in a sort of blissful harmony. As Jaskier once again grows closer to release, Geralt stops, his fingers tightly circling the base of Jaskier’s length. “We can do this all day, Jaskier.”

“Can you, old man?” Came the breathless, almost _challenging_ reply. 

Geralt punishes the retort with another round of edging, watching frustrated, desperate tears gather in Jaskier’s eyelashes. Finally he gives in, moaning, “I promise! I promise. Just-just let me-”

He spills all over himself as soon as Geralt takes his hand away. He thrusts back against Geralt in earnest, clamping down on him like a vise as he rides through the aftershocks of his orgasm. Geralt has a few more thrusts in him before he collapses over Jaskier, pushing his release deeper with every gradually slowing roll of his hips.

Once both their hearts have a chance to settle, Geralt hums, “Was that so hard?”

Jaskier rolls his eyes fondly, resting the back of his head on the edge of the tub. “If that’s your idea of discipline, I think I ought to misbehave more often.” 

There’s only so much time they can spend in water that they’ve tainted with their come, and, before long, Jaskier hauls Geralt out of the tub so they can replace the mess they made. Once the tub is filled with fresh water, they relax into one another, enjoying the simple sensation of skin touching skin.

Somehow, Jaskier talks Geralt into helping him bathe, though Geralt’s idea of helping is dumping water over Jaskier’s head and watching with amusement as he sputters and pushes his hair out of his eyes. “Very mature,” he grumbles, splashing water at Geralt half-heartedly. Though he seems content enough when Geralt properly washes Jaskier’s body, calloused hands once again lingering along the bruises on his skin.

“What did you mean,” Geralt begins once they’ve dried off and settled on the bed, Jaskier’s head comfortably resting against his shoulder, “by ‘been there, done that’?”

He’s met with silence, Jaskier’s body going curiously still at his side. 

“Jaskier.”

More silence. He’d think his companion had fallen asleep if he couldn’t hear how fast his heart was beating.

Finally, Jaskier speaks. “Do I really need to talk about myself? My past is such a boring story, Geralt, I really don’t think-”

“I think you owe me that much for saving your life.”

After another moment’s pause, Jaskier rises from the bed. “Then how would you like,” Jaskier swallows thickly, “to hear a song about the fall of Lettenhove?”

Thoroughly confused, Geralt sits up at the edge of the mattress, watching Jaskier retrieve his lute from the other side of the room. “What does Lettenhove have to do-”

Cutting Geralt off with soft strumming, Jaskier purposely glues his eyes to the placement of his fingers on the strings so he doesn’t have to look up at Geralt. The notes are haunting, lingering in the air like dark storm clouds. Geralt unconsciously holds his breath when Jaskier begins to sing. This time, Jaskier’s voice has a rough edge to it that accompanies the slight tremble of his fingers.

 _“For three long weeks Lettenhove did starve_ _  
_ _Even with the help of neighboring Stael_ _  
_ _Duke and Duchess slain without so much a shriek_ _  
_ _An assassin of the Lioness poisoning the well._

 _Razed to the ground, Lettenhove_ _  
_ _A land the Duke’s son once called home_ _  
_ _was abandoned by its heir,_ _  
_ _With no one to take its throne._

 _He ran to Lettenhove’s ‘noble’ benefactor Stael_ _  
_ _Led by a man ruled by greed._ _  
_ _The price of his stay_ _  
_ _Was the debt Lettenhove had to pay_ _  
_ _And the artless son agreed._

_What else was the son to do?_

Jaskier strides closer, his voice turning to a husky growl and the pace of his song picking up as anger seeps into his lyrics.

 _As the years crept on and on,_ _  
_ _the son was never freed._ _  
_ _Resigned to warming the Count’s bed,_ _  
_ _The Countess soon learned of their deed._

 _She beat the son near to his last breath,_ _  
_ _catching them together from the door._   
_Though the Countess did not order his death,_ _  
_ she condemned him to servitude as a whore.

_What else was the son to do?”_

When he finishes his song, Jaskier pauses for a moment, almost unsure of what to do. He settles for setting the lute onto the floor to seat himself next to Geralt and staring morosely into the crackling fireplace. Sparking ashes burst above the flames, reflecting onto his glassy, almost absent gaze. “Well, that’s my sordid story. I haven’t gotten around to writing the rest. It’s too dour for a performance, anyways.”

Learning that Jaskier is of noble birth is the last thing Geralt expected to happen, but it puts many things into perspective - especially Jaskier’s haughty attitude. Despite this, Geralt can tell that Jaskier would prefer not to linger on his past, just as Geralt prefers not to explain the origins of the many scars littering his body.

“I... see now why you’re so adamant about avoiding the company of noblemen.”

“I’ve found that a bar is a far more cheerful setting a castle, especially when you’re able to drown yourself in tankards of ale. But what do I know? I’ve only ever been to the one.” 

“You don’t have to be confined here,” Geralt finds himself saying. “There are... much better taverns on the coast. With the fresh air of the sea and good views.”

Bitterly, Jaskier lets out a huff of laughter. “You’re joking, right? Didn’t I just explain-”

“I could take you with me.” _Damn._ What was with Jaskier’s uncanny ability to make Geralt say things he never intended to?

A few moments of silence pass, Jaskier eyeing Geralt incredulously.

“No,” he says, voice firm. “You can’t. Even if you could, I’d rather not have to outrun mercenaries for the rest of my life, thank you very much.”

Geralt shakes his head. “I’ve faced far worse.”

Much to Geralt’s frustration, Jaskier balks once again. “Geralt, there is nothing I hate more than being pitied. Troubling you with the task of keeping me alive with nothing to offer you in return would be my worst nightmare.”

That’s certainly not what Geralt expected to hear. He’s about to protest when Jaskier gets up, throws the Witcher’s clothes at him, and walks over to the door, swinging it open and gesturing for Geralt to leave.

“Honestly, I love your company. But I don’t like owing people favors - even you, Geralt. _Especially_ you. It’s bad enough that you had to save me from the lamia.” His expression softens, despite his harsh words. “Our time is up. I can only hope you’ll visit me again.”

And that’s how, moments later, Geralt finds himself outside in the pouring rain, dumbstruck at the fact that Jaskier had kicked him out. Though it’s true that he hadn’t thought his offer through, he also hadn’t made it with any intention of _pitying_ Jaskier. 

Roach is reluctant to leave, the mare’s actions mirroring Geralt’s inner thoughts - but Jaskier made it clear that he didn’t want him to stay, that he didn’t particularly _need_ Geralt in his life - and so he has no choice. The only thing he can do is ride off in search of his next hunt, the ride out of Stael a lonely one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another shamless plug: https://twitter.com/bardierZrivii


	3. Flight of the Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the opportunity to escape presents itself, Jaskier has every intention to take it - with or without Geralt.

It takes a long time for Geralt to admit this to himself, but the months after he leaves Stael are aimless. He tries to tell himself that he isn’t torn up about Jaskier. He tells himself that he’s thriving. After all, he’s made himself busier than he’d been in decades. He takes all the jobs he can, perhaps as a way to keep his mind off of things. But if that were his goal (which it absolutely wasn’t, or at least that’s what he told himself) it would be to no avail. The second he has a moment of peace to himself, his mind drifts to thoughts of Jaskier. His smile, his voice, his body, his -

No. Geralt doesn’t have to do this, torture himself with the thoughts of someone who clearly wants nothing to do with him. He’d gone nearly a hundred years without being this preoccupied with someone, and he certainly isn’t planning to start now.

But still, even when Geralt notices that he’s gathered enough coin to go back to Stael, or that he’s desperately in need of a good lay, he’s more... _reluctant_ to return to Jaskier’s side than he is violently opposed to it out of principle. 

Is he afraid of Jaskier turning him away? No, that can’t be it. He hunts grotesque, vile monsters for a living, he’s the White Wolf. He isn’t afraid of anything, especially not some insignificant man. And yet… whenever he draws up the slightest bit of courage to ride off in the direction of Stael, he thinks of Jaskier slamming the door on him and Geralt immediately tugs on Roach’s reins to turn around.

Suffice it to say that he isn’t used to letting people close, let alone when those very people forsake him so easily. 

Three months apart from Jaskier turn into six, and six turn into ten - and Geralt is still haunted by the ghost of Jaskier’s image in his head.

He decides that he needs to go back one last time. One last time to confirm that either Jaskier would be alright with never seeing him again, or… something else. Whichever way things turn out, at least Geralt will have some semblance of _closure._

And so, he finds himself in Stael once again, surroundings looking decidedly more _lively_ than the last time he’d visited. The streets are bustling with knights, women, and children, all of them donning some sort of flowery adornment. A special occasion, it seems.

A small girl with a bundle of daisies in her tiny hands runs past him as he’s hitching Roach to a post outside the brothel. She stops, cranes her neck dramatically to look up at him, and holds out a single white flower by the stem.

“For me?” He asks, trying not to sound so gruff. The girl nods excitedly, beaming when Geralt gently plucks the flower out of her small grasp.

He thinks that’s the end of it, but the girl doesn’t leave. Instead, she gestures to her ear. “You’ve got to have a flower in your hair for the festival of Saint Cethleann,” she says by way of explanation, looking deathly serious.

Just as Geralt obligingly tucks the daisy behind his ear, he sees the girl’s mother come from behind her to hurriedly pick her up, scolding her for stopping outside and approaching a dangerous-looking stranger - or rather, a _deadly, bloodthirsty Witcher…_ who now has a flower in his hair.

Despite this, the girl looks unconcerned after her mother’s reaction, waving goodbye to Geralt over her shoulder. Geralt simply nods after her, the faintest of smiles across his face, spirits lifted the tiniest bit by the interaction.

He keeps the flower in his hair as he steps inside the brothel, spotting Lilia’s familiar face contort into an expression of shock. She immediately throws down the rag she’d been using to wipe the bartop clean and hurries over, much to Geralt’s pleasure. 

“Forgive my surprise, Witcher. I hadn’t taken you for one to take part in religious festivities.” Lilia openly stares at the flower in his hair, as is to be expected. 

“I’m not.” A small smile lifts the corner of his lips nonetheless. “You know why I’m here, Lilia.” 

Like all his previous visits, he doesn’t intend to waste any time. He’d come to this brothel for one reason, and one reason only. But when Lilia takes a few moments to answer, he knows something is wrong. “I’m afraid your usual fancy isn’t available at the moment.”

 _At the moment?_ A scowl quickly replaces the smile on his face. “Meaning?”

She leans in closer, gaze full of apologetic pity. “He’s _busy_ , Witcher. But, we do have a few girls free, if you’d like?”

Great. The _one_ day in _ten months_ he decides to come back, Jaskier has a client to entertain - a client that isn’t _him._ Shaking off the overwhelming wave of disappointment and regret, he shakes his head. “Just bring two pints to my table,” he grunts, slamming a few coins onto the bartop with more force than is strictly necessary.

Settling into the darkest corner of the bar is something that _should_ be a familiar comfort, but the anticipation of being able to see Jaskier again after so long sets his nerves alight. Geralt can’t keep himself still, gloved fingers tapping impatiently on the gnarled wood of his table and fiddling with his tankard like an anxious boy. Even the daisy isn’t safe from his fidgeting, though he eventually settles for leaving it on the table in front of him. 

As he waits, he can hear conversation about him at a nearby table. Their drunken attempts at whispering are so _shit_ that even a half-deaf human could easily tell what they were hissing at each other. Nonetheless, Geralt pretends as if he can’t hear a thing and dutifully chugs away at his second pint of mead.

_“A Witcher - why’s there a Witcher here? It’s the week of the festival.”_

_“The son of a whore looks like he wants to tear the heads off every man in here-”_

_“-so go on, fight ‘im then! Show ‘im he ain’t welcome!”_

_“Oi, no, he looks fuckin’ scary, don’t he? Like he found out someone pissed in his mug. Just drink yer fuckin’ ale or go wave down a knight.”_

_“A knight? You think a knight could do anything against ‘im?”_

Geralt wishes this sort of reaction was abnormal, but it had unfortunately become more frequent in towns that were lucky enough not to need a Witcher regularly. Sure, perhaps his expression isn’t _pleasant_ at this particular moment, but he it didn’t think it was so intimidating. Pressing a finger and a thumb to his brow, he attempts to massage out the creases that had formed on his forehead.

With conscious effort to appear slightly more amiable, it seems as if the men nearby had settled down - which is fortunate, because it wouldn’t be impossible for him to kill someone if he were to get in a bar fight. The last thing he wants is to get kicked out without even getting to speak to Jaskier.

Almost two hours had passed since Geralt had first walked through the door, and he was starting to wonder if he should just leave. Was Jaskier even guaranteed to come out of his quarters before dawn? What if his customer had paid for a few nights, rather than a few hours? Or, God forbid, a _week_? 

Geralt tells himself that he has the decency to leave after another hour passes, but deep down he knows there’s no way in hell he’s leaving town without at least _seeing_ Jaskier.

Finally, _blessedly_ , Jaskier descends the stairs looking no less otherworldly than he had when Geralt last saw him. His hair is a tousled mess atop his head, shirt loose and hanging from one shoulder. Had they been anywhere else, Geralt surely wouldn’t have been able to help himself from practically devouring the man. But, rather unfortunately, Jaskier is not alone.

The man trailing behind him, who Geralt can only assume is Jaskier’s client, is a stout, older man with thinning hair and gaudy, posh clothing. They practically reek of one another, making Geralt resent his enhanced senses. Jaskier stops at the bartop to speak with one of Lilia’s employees, oblivious that Geralt is watching him. The client stops behind Jaskier and presses against him, an arm snaking around Jaskier’s hips as he presses lewd kisses to the back of his neck. Had Jaskier been facing Geralt, he is sure that his expression would be twisting into one of discomfort. But, even partially turned away, Geralt still notices Jaskier tense as if his spine had become perfectly straight. The display makes Geralt want to vomit, mead roiling threateningly in his stomach. His only solace comes from the fact that Jaskier looks vaguely disgusted after having been kissed and touched by the other man.

Before he leaves, the man presses a kiss to the back of Jaskier’s hand. They exchange a few words, which Jaskier seems to receive rather well, all things considered. The client pays Geralt no mind on his way out, but the Witcher watches his every move to the door. He doesn’t look like the kind to leave bruises, like the ones Geralt had seen on Jaskier’s body before they’d gone out to hunt down the lamia, but looks could be deceiving.

Geralt is about to go to Jaskier, but Jaskier spots him first. A wide, bright smile spreads across his face, and Geralt almost expects him to run over in song to loudly greet him. He’s only mostly wrong. Before Geralt can do anything, Jaskier quickly strides over to his table, setting himself down on the seat across from him.

“Geralt! A pleasant surprise, this is,” He exclaims breathlessly, as if they hadn’t parted on less than pleasant terms. “You wouldn’t _believe_ what just happened.”

Geralt shifts in his seat with a quiet grunt, hiding his face behind his third tankard as he took another swig. “What, with your latest gentleman caller?”

Not outwardly acknowledging the bitter resentment in Geralt’s voice, Jaskier leans forward and sets his hands down on the table, fiddling with the daisy Geralt had abandoned on the table. “Oh, the things he can do with his tongue, Geralt. Really, if he weren’t insistent on being so overly _touchy_ , we’d get on a hell of a lot bett-”

“Jaskier. What did he tell you?” Geralt feels the urgent need to cut him off as his stomach churned at the image Jaskier put in his head. Up close, Jaskier smells even more like his client, though Geralt makes an effort to not let it show that he’s bothered. He feels figurative stormclouds gathering above his head. Any more of Jaskier’s tactless talk about his customer and lightning might have struck.

“Ah! Right. So!” Excitedly, Jaskier discards the flower and turns his palms towards Geralt, a wonderful flush blooming from the apples of his cheeks. “I’ve just been invited to a banquet. It’s not my usual scene, sure, but anything that’ll get me out of here is a welcome event.”

“I thought you hated the nobility.”

Jaskier snorts, letting his hands drop back onto the table surface. “Oh, so you remember that, do you? This invitation isn’t so much an invitation as it is an _order_ , you see. Anyways, I have a favor to ask.”

“I think you’re the one that owes me a favor.”

“ _Really_ , Geralt?” Jaskier asks, his expression and tone anything but amused. He bordered on upset, even. “That business with the lamia happened nearly a _year_ ago, can’t you let it go already?”

No, Geralt isn’t willing to let that go. At this point, it’s the only tangible thing linking them together. “Jaskier…”

“Fine! Fine, you’ll have something in return. You already know that I only have one thing to offer.” A comment that once would have been playful, teasing, or accompanied by footsie was now… oddly serious. Despite that, Jaskier doesn’t allow the somber tone to linger for longer than a heartbeat. 

Jaskier launches into his inquiry as soon as Geralt reluctantly nods his head, motioning for him to get on with his request. “All I’m asking is that you act as my bodyguard tonight. By the nature of my occupation there are maybe… a _few_ nobles who would be rather pleased if they saw me gutted.”

Letting out a sigh, Geralt stops Jaskier before he can ramble further on. “Why were you hired, Jaskier?” He still hasn’t fully explained why he was being summoned to the Stael estate, and Geralt is starting to get a bad feeling from this.

“As purely platonic company.” Jaskier quipped, any momentary joy drained from his tired expression. “I was hired as a _courtesan_ , of course. What other use would those pompous twats see for me?”

Geralt nods slowly, seething silently at the thought of watching Jaskier cozy up to the very men and women he hated so much - but the cherry on top? Geralt was most angry at the thought of those men and women not being _him_.

Shaking off the errant thoughts, Geralt frowned. “Hire a human for human predicaments. I’d rather have my hand chopped off than suffer through some insipid noble circle-jerk.”

Jaskier leaned forwards again, getting uncomfortably close as he grasped one of Geralt’s hands. The touch was soft, pleading with words that may never be uttered aloud. “All the men in this town that are capable of protecting me are under the Count de Stael’s rule. Besides, you’re the only person worth talking to in this shithole,” He grouses, and Geralt tries not to pay any mind to the weak compliment. “So? What do you say, partner?”

“Partner?” The new nickname startles Geralt. “We’re not _partners_ , Jaskier.”

“We could be. I’m _asking_ you to be. I promise you won’t regret this.”

It doesn’t seem like Jaskier means anything more by the request, much to Geralt’s chagrin. Nevertheless, it’s not as though Geralt would ever let Jaskier run the risk of dying. So he nods - almost imperceptibly - but of course Jaskier notices the slight movement, perking up so much that Geralt forgets to be irritated by the whole situation.

* * *

Geralt, in a word, is livid.

He wouldn’t be this angry if Jaskier had even half-acknowledged that their companionship was anything but an impersonal business transaction, but he didn’t. In fact, it all seemed to go downhill after their initial conversation in the brothel. He didn’t treat Geralt as anything more than a friend, or even _as_ a friend, for that matter. Jaskier acted as though Geralt was nothing but a Witcher he only _sort of_ knew, who was acting as his bodyguard solely for the promise of sex. Perhaps Geralt wouldn’t be so bothered by this if they had enough time for a quick fuck before they left for the estate, but no. Apparently the nobility had no concern for the commonfolk’s time.

So here he was, dressed in a stuffy, confining silk tunic and forced to stand watch in the corner of the hall without his swords, watching Jaskier fall over himself to serve the lord that had invited him to this god-forsaken banquet. 

Accompanied by his mug of ale, Geralt could hardly say he was lonely - but he felt something in the depths of his chest whenever Jaskier looked so pleased in someone else’s company. That feeling gave way to relieved palpitations of his heart when Jaskier finally, _finally_ looked his way, giving him a tight, reassuring smile as if trying to silently tell him everything would be alright. He didn’t _need_ the reassurance, or so he tells himself, but judging by Jaskier’s pleased smile at Geralt’s reaction, maybe Jaskier _thought_ that he did.

Maybe he should be worried about the thunderstorm of emotions he’d been experiencing in Jaskier’s presence. But now was not the time for that. Geralt didn’t think there would _ever_ be a time for that, because he and Jaskier were barely more than acquaintances, after all. 

For the next few hours, Geralt at least has his thoughts to occupy himself with to pass the time. He hasn’t really stopped drinking since the brothel, but he figures that pacing himself with a mild buzz was better than being painfully sober. Idly passing time backfires when he snaps out of his thoughts to see that Jaskier is missing.

The crude, handsy lord that had invited Jaskier was still there in his seat, but the not-quite esteemed guest himself was noticeably gone. 

As embarrassing as it is, Geralt sees no option but to use his nose to find Jaskier. It was easy enough, since he had the unmistakable and unshakeable scent of sex about him, which overlaid his unique smell of brambles and lavendar. But the mortifying part was the fact that Geralt knew Jaskier’s scent well enough to be able to track him down, like he was some sort of loyal bloodhound.

Geralt can tell he’s getting closer by the way Jaskier’s scent begins to get stronger. He hears Jaskier before he sees him, which was almost comically fitting, but he hears another voice alongside his, one deeper and notably distraught.

“Julian. How long has it been since we’ve seen each other? I’ve missed you dearly.”

 _Julian?_ Was that another of Jaskier’s fake names… or his real one?

“It’s not as if I left by choice. You could have visited me at any time, really.”

“You don’t understand the suffering of nobility. If it were up to me, I’d have kept you here in the lap of luxury, not a care in your life but keeping me happy and sated.”

There’s a brief pause, then a slight scoff from Jaskier. 

“Is there a point to this, or…”

The sound of shuffling and the abrupt slap of skin on skin alarms Geralt, but Jaskier’s heart rate barely changes, which troubles Geralt more than if it _had_ quickened. He stays hidden, determined to listen the whole way through.

“Listen to me. I’ve bought a poison, one deadly enough to kill my wife with nothing but a few drops. I’d never had the courage to do it before, but living life without you by my side convinced me. It was either you or her, and I’ve made my choice.”

God, this idiot was insane.

Jaskier seemed to feel the same way, if the slight tremble in his voice was any indication. “Right, right, and, um - you’re _actually_ planning on going through with this, aren’t you?”

“I wouldn’t have gotten Lord Arundel to invite you to this banquet if I weren’t. My wife is already pitching a fit in her quarters from seeing you again after all these years.”

There are a few moments of silence, during which Geralt isn’t aware that he’s holding his breath, waiting for Jaskier’s answer.

“Alright.”

_What?_

“Do it, then. Show me what you would do to keep me by your side, my lord, and I will happily stay with you ‘till the end of my days.”

No. This couldn’t be happening. Did Jaskier really harbor feelings for this man who had the brazen audacity to _hit_ him, this insufferable dimwit who only seemed to think with his dick?

Geralt didn’t have to wonder long, because seemingly out of nowhere, Jaskier turned the corner and barreled right into his chest. Geralt slapped a hand over Jaskier’s mouth before he could let out a sound for fear of the Count still being close enough to hear. He could feel the heat on Jaskier’s skin from where the Count had slapped him, cheek red and practically throbbing to the touch. But he knows better than to say anything about it, at least here.

Silently, Geralt motions his head back towards the hall, knowing they needed to have this conversation somewhere they wouldn’t be overheard.

Once welcomed back by the cacophony of drunk carousing and the screeching of tone-deaf bards, Geralt pulls Jaskier over to a corner and boxes him into it with his larger frame. “What was that?”

Jaskier, to his credit, doesn’t feign innocence. “Oh, you heard all that? Apparently the Count is far more keen on me than I remember.”

“You’re not _really_ going to take him up on his offer, are you?”

Geralt feels something open up at the pit of his stomach at the way Jaskier looks, as if he’s come to realize something just by the cadence of Geralt’s words. “A better question to ask would be why you’re so concerned, Geralt.”

Geralt finds that he can’t answer the question, even when he asks himself the same thing.

“So what if I agreed to his offer?” Jaskier snapped after enduring Geralt’s dumbstruck silence. “Is it really so _deplorable_ of me to want something better for myself, to want to leave the fucking brothel?” Jaskier gives Geralt’s chest a shove and wriggles out of the corner. “I know that you must feel… _something_ for me. Whatever it is that Witchers feel. I’m sorry, Geralt. I really am, but -” 

“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” Geralt interrupts. It should have been a question, but his tone is so monotonous that it comes out as a statement of fact. He doesn’t say who Jaskier’s leaving, or what, but he knows Jaskier can tell from the inflection of his voice. 

Jaskier swallows thickly, studying Geralt’s expression in a moment of somber silence. “Yes.” He says, voice quiet and almost fearful of Geralt’s reaction.

“My offer still stands.” Geralt ensures him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I will help you, if you let me. You don’t have to be _here_ to be _free_.”

The look Jaskier gives him in return threatens to rip Geralt’s heart in two. His expression is more bleak than he has ever seen it, gaze quickly shifting and fixing somewhere on the wall. When he looks back up, his eyes are renewed with a different type of sadness. One that was adamant, as if Geralt and his offer meant nothing to him in the light of his ambitions.

Without a word, Jaskier backs away and lets Geralt’s hand slip off his shoulder. He lingers for a moment, almost hesitating before he turns to greet the Count. His spine straightens. The closer he gets to the Count’s seat, the further his expression slips into something more pleasant. It hurts, watching Jaskier ingratiate himself with a man so undeserving of his attention, but if this is what Jaskier wants, Geralt is the last person on earth that can stop him.

Thankfully, there are enough people at the banquet for Geralt to hide himself from Jaskier’s view. As much as Geralt wishes desperately to leave and get back on the Path, he knows that Jaskier is still in danger, whether by the nobles casting jealous looks his way, or by the Count, who’s growing looser by the goblet. So he stays, the experience no less painful than literal torture.

But staying out of Jaskier’s line of sight means that Jaskier is obscured from his, too. Regardless, he can’t stop himself from picking out Jaskier’s elated laughter and pleasant conversation amongst the din of the banquet. He had the unfortunate luck to hear the comments of those around him, too. It was sickening to hear, especially the bitter, lustful comments made by Lord Arundel, who is especially vexxed.

“Quick to fall onto the cock of a richer man, isn’t he? I expected to be _serviced_ after sitting through this boring fucking ordeal.”

“What whore isn’t? Though, I should think you would be used to sharing with the Count, Arundel.”

“Yes, yes, I suppose there’s no harm in enjoying his leftovers-”

Before Geralt has the chance to lose his temper and beat Lord Arundel to the ground, a commotion erupts at the head of the table. There are shrieks, gasps, and cries for help that blend together like a panicked orchestra. Geralt can’t immediately see what’s going on. Dread sits heavy in his stomach as though he’d swallowed a stone, and he pushes urgently through the crowd.

When he finally reaches the center of the chaos, he sees the Count slumped over in his seat, wine spilling off the edges of the table and food scattered everywhere as bystanders try uselessly to revive him. However, Jaskier is nowhere to be seen.

Growing increasingly desperate, Geralt stumbles away from the crowd, scanning his surroundings for his companion - his _partner._ But Jaskier is gone, only a faint trace of his scent left in the banquet hall.

Geralt is thankfully able to follow the trail of his scent outside, mind swirling with unanswered questions once free of the racket. Did the Count accidentally poison himself? Where was the Countess? His questions can wait until after he finds Jaskier, but the prospect of that is quickly dwindling.

After another half hour of aimless searching, Geralt has all but given up hope of finding Jaskier. He heads to the stables to retrieve Roach so he can finally leave the accursed estate, when he spots a familiar figure having trouble unlocking one of the stable gates.

“Jaskier,” he says, more breathlessly than he’d intended. “What are you-”

Jaskier whips around guiltily, dagger in hand. He handles the blade with as much familiarity as fish breathing air. It lowers only when he realizes it’s Geralt who approached him. “God, Geralt, you nearly gave me a heart attack! Why… Why are you still here? I thought you’d have left after I…”

“I had to make sure you made it through the night alive. I promised, didn’t I?”

Hand trembling, Jaskier lets his dagger slip out of his grasp, where it clatters to the dirt. “I don’t understand. Why are you so concerned? None of this has _anything_ to do with you!”

“How am I not involved? Who asked me to come here, Jaskier? Who called us _partners?”_

Jaskier lets out a frustrated groan, turning away. He gave the stable door another useless pull before kicking it out of frustration and whipping back around to face the Witcher. “I only said that so you’d agree to tonight,” he hisses, fisting a hand in his mussed-up hair. “We,” he pontificates by pointing at Geralt, then back at himself, “are _nothing.”_

Geralt isn’t so insecure that he believes Jaskier. He’s calm as he replies. “Then why ask me to come in the first place?”

Jaskier lets out an incredulous chuckle, eyes wide with disbelief. “I can’t believe you. You act as if you can’t stand me in the brothel, then behave like some sort of knight in shining armor once we’re here among more _civilized_ folk, I-”

“Jaskier-”

“You ruined _everything,_ Geralt,” Jaskier accuses, refusing to let Geralt speak. “I was going to stay here, live in the estate without a care in the world after I’d killed both the Count and Countess. No one would ever find out it’d been me who’d done it - the Count bought the poison himself, the dumb bastard. He even left every one of his assets to my name.”

“How did I-”

“But then,” Jaskier’s voice rose as he stepped closer, slamming a fist into Geralt’s chest. “ _Then,_ you looked at me like some sort of kicked puppy when I’d already made up my mind to stay. Like your heart would shrivel up and _die_ if I left you alone. What was I supposed to do, Geralt? I couldn’t leave with you - I can’t even trust you. I can’t trust _anyone_.”

But then… why would Jaskier have left the estate at all? Geralt raises an eyebrow, his tone of voice perplexed. “Yet… here we are.”

Jaskier scans Geralt’s expression for a moment, brows furrowed. Their faces are inches away from each others’, eyes locked in a heated gaze. 

“I was planning on leaving alone. I really was.”

“You knew I left Roach at these very stables.”

“Maybe so.”

“If you can’t trust me, then leave, Jaskier. Without me.” 

Unsurprisingly, Jaskier refuses to budge. “That’s what I thought,” Geralt smirks, turning away only to kick the lock off the gate that Jaskier had been struggling with earlier. He easily soothes the horse inside, casting _Axii_ to calm it down enough to outfit it with the saddle hanging nearby.

“I’m serious, Geralt, I really had intended to leave alone!”

“Which is why you were skulking around the one place I’d be guaranteed to return,” Geralt quips, whistling for Roach to come near. “Get on the horse, already. We can finish this conversation once we’re out of this damn place.”

With one last uncertain glance, Jaskier nods his understanding, pulling himself onto the saddle while Geralt mounts Roach.

They burst out of the stables, Jaskier following closely behind Geralt with the grace of a well-practiced rider. Attributing the skill to Jaskier’s noble upbringing, Geralt snaps the reins to get Roach to go faster, certain that Jaskier is able to keep up.

Once they’re a good distance from the city gates, Jaskier slows his horse to a slow trot. Geralt does the same, staying close so they can hear each other over the howling wind.

“Care to tell me why you didn’t think you could trust me?” Geralt hums, looking over at Jaskier, who is adamantly refusing to meet his gaze.

“I thought the Countess had sent you, that you were someone she hired just to mess with my head. To torment me further during my imprisonment.”

Letting out a noise of confusion, Geralt retorts, “I’ve never met the Countess in my life.”

“ _That_ I figured out soon enough.” Jaskier finally looks at him, stubborn determination in his gaze. “Aside from that - we barely knew each other, and you were offering to help me escape despite how much of a burden it would be on you?

“Asking me to leave with you, even if you had no ties to the Countess... Truth be told, Geralt, I didn’t want to change hands from one captor to the next. I had no idea of knowing your true intentions, and I’d rather you turned into a pleasant memory than my new warden - so I made you leave, thinking you’d take the hint and never come back.”

“You thought it’d be that easy to get rid of me, huh?” Geralt snorts, trying on a slight smile in an attempt to lighten Jaskier’s sudden sour mood. It seems to work, because Jaskier lets a small smile show on his face.

“As if. You’re clingier than a venereal disease. The third time you came around, it started to dawn on me, Geralt. You… you _care_ about me, don’t you?”

Though reluctant, Geralt nods his head. “Why else would I have returned?” 

Jaskier’s mouth is hanging wide open, speechless from Geralt’s nonplussed confession. “Well, I - I wasn’t expecting you to agree just like that…”

“I would have thought that bringing you the lute made that obvious enough.”

Jaskier’s expression of shock twists into one of horror. “...Fuck. _Fuck,_ Geralt, we need to go back!”

Alarmed, Geralt already has Roach turned around, ready to sprint where Jaskier needs him at a moment’s notice. “What now?”

Jaskier looks incredibly distressed, looking ready to push his horse to the limits and reach Stael as fast as possible. “The lute, I left it in the brothel - I can’t just _leave_ it there!”

A few seconds of incredulous silence pass before Geralt smoothly puts Roach in the path of Jaskier’s horse. “I’ll get you another.”

“But it’s - it’s the first thing…” Jaskier trails off, a flush quickly spreading to the tips of his ears.

Watching Jaskier’s emotional outburst instills Geralt with the confidence that he’s not the only one who _cares_. As gently as he can, he reassures his companion. “I know where to find some elves with impeccable woodcarving skills on the way to the coast. You’ll have another lute, one to celebrate your newfound freedom. One that won’t remind you of Stael and the brothel.”

After almost a minute’s pause, Jaskier reluctantly nods, slowly redirecting his horse. Though it takes some time for Jaskier to accept leaving his lute behind, he’s eventually himself again and helping Geralt set up camp for the night. When Geralt looks over from where he’s setting out his bedroll, he sees Jaskier hold up a branch so dry that the bark crumbles under his touch. He shakes it as if to make a point that he won’t make the same mistake as the last time Geralt had given him the task of gathering firewood.

Geralt can’t help the huff of laughter that escapes him at the display, shooting Jaskier a fond glance as he takes the firewood out of his hands to start the fire.

Once everything is set up, Geralt and Jaskier share the one bedroll they have. They’re close enough to touch, but Jaskier seems skittish, arms pressed tightly against his sides as if he refuses to let their bodies come into contact. All of this in spite of the fact that the night is cold, wind buffeting them and imparting a deep-seated chill despite the roaring fire in front of them.

Geralt can feel Jaskier’s shivering through the ground. Throwing caution to the wind, Geralt blankets his hand on top of Jaskier’s, thumb rubbing gentle circles into the back of his icy palm. However, Jaskier pulls away as if burnt, then tries to play off his reaction by sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “Ah, I’m not really in the mood, Geralt. Not right now.”

Dumbfounded, Geralt stares at Jaskier’s profile. “In the mood for what…? I was just trying to warm you up.” Compared to Witchers, humans always did seem more vulnerable to the cold. 

Jaskier returns the stare with a deadpan expression. “I didn’t take you for the kind of person to play dumb.” Jaskier sounds vaguely angry, still refusing to let any part of their bodies touch. “You want to fuck, don’t you? Well, after the whole ordeal at the banquet, I hardly think-”

He’s stopped by Geralt’s hand on his injured cheek, stunned speechless by the contact. “If I wanted sex, I’d have been more forward,” Geralt drawled, using his free hand to pull Jaskier in by the waist. “Besides, aren’t you cold?” Wanting to keep Jaskier warm actually _was_ an excuse. What Geralt really wanted to make sure Jaskier was okay. To feel his presence, to ground himself.

“O-Oh.” Jaskier is still tense, but he allows himself to lean into Geralt’s touch with his eyes closed. The corner of his mouth ticks up in a nervous smile. “Well, I suppose this is something I can endure.”

Later, when Jaskier has accepted that they only have one bedroll to share and allowed Geralt to curl around him in a bid to fall asleep, Geralt remembers that he has one last question to ask Jaskier.

“So. Is Julian another alias, or your real name?”

Jaskier raises his head from where he’d buried it into the crook of Geralt’s neck, looking rather irritated at having to remove himself from his comfortable position for something so trivial. “It’s my real name. Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

Geralt can’t help but laugh at the posh name, earning a weak blow to his side. “Hey! Don’t laugh. I bet Geralt isn’t even _your_ real name.”

“It is,” Geralt huffs, tugging Jaskier closer. “Geralt Roger Eric du Haute-Bellegarde, in full.”

A few moments of baffled silence pass before Jaskier is beside himself with laughter, muffling his outburst into Geralt’s chest. “You can’t be serious! I thought your full title was just ‘Geralt of Rivia.’”

“That’s the title I was given, not the one I chose.” Geralt leaves it at that, gently carding his fingers through Jaskier’s soft strands of hair.

The tenderness of Geralt’s action renders Jaskier speechless again, but he quickly recovers with the help of his unending curiosity. “As glad as I am that you’ve finally decided to divulge something about yourself, I think I deserve a bit more. After all, I gave you my whole backstory - and in the form of a song, no less.”

When Geralt is silent, Jaskier prods him more insistently. “You know, I’ve heard that Witchers are often children promised in the Law of Surprise. You wouldn’t happen to have…”

“No,” Geralt grunts. He sighs reluctantly, but Jaskier is right - it’s only fair that he give up something about his past in return. “I wasn’t so lucky. My mother abandoned me at the doorstep of Kaer Morhen.”

“...I’m truly sorry to hear that,” Jaskier replies apologetically, fisting a hand in Geralt’s shirt. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“No,” Geralt grunts again, placing a hand over Jaskier’s fist in an attempt to help him relax. “You were right. It’s only fair. Is there anything else you want to ask before we sleep?”

“Just one thing,” Jaskier hums, clearing his throat.

Geralt hums back affirmatively.

“Do you prefer to be the big spoon, or the little spoon?”

When Jaskier gets no response, he gently pushes Geralt so that he’s facing away, settling against his back with his arms curled tightly around Geralt’s barrel of a chest. “From the silence, I’m assuming little spoon.”

Geralt would rather die than admit aloud that Jaskier was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ITS OVER!!!! but not actually ;)
> 
> Thanks for staying for the whole ride! Thanks again to Kailey for beta and encouragement,,,,
> 
> Btw, that actually is the name Geralt chose for himself (thank you, Witcher wiki).


End file.
